


Wide Eyed

by fouryearslater (CheshireCatLife)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments (Movies), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Although that's debatable on characterisation, As the TV show did that very well., But only in the way that I literally lifted dialogue from the book, Chaos Ensues, Happy Ending, It's very book-centric, Light Angst, M/M, Malec see the future, Spoilers For Book 1: City of Bones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:08:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21607312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCatLife/pseuds/fouryearslater
Summary: Magnus didn't mean to see the future. And he certainly didn't mean to show it to Alexander.In which Alec shows up to Chairman Meow's birthday party, only to get a lot more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 5
Kudos: 83





	Wide Eyed

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> This is the first malec fic that I've posted since I was about 13 but I'm excited. I've recently returned to the fandom and I wanted to see the progression I've made in terms of writing style. 
> 
> A small thing on books vs TV lore. This is based off City of Bones plot wise but some characters are much more like their TV counterparts (predominantly Izzy and certain aspects of Magnus). I'm hoping it's not confusing but it doesn't affect the story all that much, just thought I'd give the heads up. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> -fouryearslater
> 
> p.s does anyone know if you can centralise images on this godforsaken website? I had page dividers but they won't go in the middle so it looks crazy. Or just how to get the images to appear, because apparently they're refusing to do that too :((

Magnus lets out a raucous laugh, roaring unruly in a way that he only can in front of his oldest friend. Or, well, one of the oldest. It crinkles his eyes, sending a small concentration of glitter eyeshadow into the air, and adds years to him that he’ll never gain. Catarina joins in not long after, barely able to restrain the bubbling amusement, throwing her thick, white hair over her shoulder as she let her head lean freely back. Eventually, the laughter subsides, peals turning into childish chuckles. “You use your magic so frivolously,” Catarina complains fruitlessly, an amused smile still on her lips.

“Is that a compliment or complaint?” Catarina raises an eyebrow; it doesn’t really answer the question but then again, Magnus doesn’t really need an answer. In retaliation, Magnus throws another blue orb into the sky and moulds it to the image in his mind. This time, instead of a portrait of Ragnor Fell’s frowning face, he moulds it into one of Catarina’s ex-lovers, a mundane named Frank, whose life was lost in the Second World War, although not before he cheated on Catarina thrice and then claimed it was her fault (she always did choose the best ones). When the image is complete, she frowns at him before cracking a smile at memories so long gone, they barely hurt. After a while, nothing seems to hurt.

“You’re cruel,” she says without contempt.

“Did you not want to see his face?” He teases. Frank had been rather handsome, with a slim, proportional face and slick, dark hair to match his eyes. He had had one of the most charming smiles of any of Catarina’s mistakes. “I thought you’d rather like to see him again.”

“Oh, of course. He’s a man I’ll forever miss.” She rolls her eyes but smiles, leaning back into the plush cushions of Magnus’ sofa and toying with a strand of hair, the blue of her skin a stark contrast to the snow-like white. “Now, stop showing off. You have a party to plan.”

“Oh, ye of little faith. I am fully prepared. For all intents and purposes, the party is done.”

“I’ve been with you all day,” she sighs doubtfully. “And you only decided to do this this morning when you realised your cat was turning…what was it?”

“Seven.”

“Though not really. It’s been seven years since you found him.”

“I’m sure he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.”

“Where is he?”

“Probably in the bedroom,” Magnus shrugs, “he just loves Egyptian cotton. Now, back to me. I have more to show you.”

“You really don’t need to-"

“Uh-uh. You agreed to this.”

“Your ego really doesn’t need any more boosting.”

Magnus gasps dramatically and holds a hand over his heart. “I’ll have you know that I have very low self-esteem.”

“I really do wish you’d not affiliated yourself with that rock band. You’re picking up their awful sarcasm.”

“I think it’s rather fun.”

“You think everything’s fun.”

“Because it is!” Magnus cheers gleefully as he leaps out of his seat. The upcoming party is leaving him jittery with nerves in the best way possible, the excitement like a bubble of joy around him. It’s the extrovert in him, probably, or maybe just the drama queen. “As I was saying, I still have something to show you.”

“So what was the point of the magic tricks?”

“I’ll have you know that it takes some very complex mental manipulation to make anything more than vague shapes. But they were just a warmup for the main event. And, well, they looked a little more impressive. But the concept of this. You’re going to love it.”

“Whenever you say that, I seem to very much not love it.”

“You’re in a rather sour mood today,” Magnus notes. No judgement is passed between them, they’re far beyond that, but there’s an inkling of curiosity beneath the surface.

“I’m fine,” she states, with a little too much force. Magnus tries not to think about it. Whenever he tries to ‘help’, he only ends up making things worse. 400 years haven’t taught him much in the art of cheering someone up. Instead, he can be his usual self and hope that his amazing fashion sense and excruciatingly talented magical abilities will do something to help.

Magnus rifles through the cupboards quickly, until he finds the box, a little jar inside. It’s barely got enough in it to see it, merely a purple stain on the bottom of the tiny glass bottle. It’s not so different from other potions at first sight, but the build-up is enough to have Catarina question “what does it do?”

“I’m grateful you asked,” Magnus announces with dramatic flair and a suspicious wink. “I, Catarina, have made a solution to show the future.”

“You made a drinkable crystal ball?” She says, unimpressed.

“Drinkable, Catarina! Drinkable! Do you know the skill that requires?”

“Yes, I do,” she assures, “I just don’t see the point.”

“Well I’ve never been any good at the whole crystal ball schtick,” Magnus admits.

“Magnus Bane admitting a fault?! Will I never.”

“Oh, I thought you were just complaining about my sarcasm. And do stop, I was proud of this.”

Kindly, with only a drop of condescending, Catarina assures, “it’s very impressive.” Magnus just glares balefully, flashing his cat eyes brightly for effect. “And now you probably ought to throw it away.”

“What?!” Magnus gasps. “Why?”

“It shows the future, Magnus. You do know what will happen when you give that to someone.”

“Crystal balls do it all the time!”

“And it’s terrible,” she reprimands. “No one should know the future. It creates a paradox, anyway. Knowing the future changes the future yet there is only one future.”

“Or so you think.”

“Magnus, it’s the first lesson of fortune-telling: there’s only one future. Even you know that. But doesn’t that sound awful to you? To know what happens and know you can’t change it. That nothing can change it.”

“It’s fine.”

She sighs. “I guess my point doesn’t stand to reason. The future’s set. But I pity the poor customer that you sell that to.”

“It’ll be fine, Catarina,” he assures, tucking it into his ‘selling’ cabinet, proudly on display in his hallway, full of bright, colourful bottles. All for show, of course, most of them actually looked like sludge. Dusting his hands off, he smiles and turns back to Catarina. “What could go wrong?”

“I really don’t think we should go,” Alec reasons, fiddling with his hair. Izzy just laughs as she parts her thick, black hair. It falls perfectly down her back, no matter what she says, but Alec doesn’t even look. He’s long since gotten over his sister’s superior fashion sense, as well as her unnerving perfectionism when it comes to clothes. And other things, of course. Wait! No! That sounded wrong…wait, did it? Or is-

“It’ll be fine,” she assures when they’re wrapped back in the warm embrace of silence. She’s quietly throwing his clothes around his room (he’ll have to tidy that up later), although every now and then she’ll find something she likes and drop it onto the pile at his feet. It’s dismally small, but so is his entire wardrobe.

“I wish you’d find something that wasn’t black.”

“Jace will be wearing black.”

“He’s blonde. It adds colour.”

“You want me to dye my hair?”

She grimaces and shakes her head. “Of course not. That would be awful. Although…you could suit a deep blue. Match your eyes-”

“Enough. Just tell me what I’m going to wear.” She digs through the pile of clothing and decisively creates two more piles. She points to the left one. “Wear that. It may be black but at least it has a modicum of style. Anyway, I need to go help Clary.”

“I wasn’t finished-”

“See you later, bro!” She walks out of the room. He grits his teeth; bro is not something that Izzy should ever be heard saying.

Alec was going to kill Simon.

And Clary.

And any other mundane that decided to test his patience by turning up to the Institute with A) lacking memories, B) no common sense or C) just the idea that a mundane is allowed in the Institute.

He stares down at the pile and neatly lays it on an empty space on his bed: not that there’s much left. He sighs at the thought of having to fold it all backup but reluctantly inspects his chosen outfit first, scrutinising the life choices that put him in this position. He notes to the too-tight skinny jeans and feels the urge to switch them for his other pair, but he notes the ripped knee and thinks that he’ll at least have some manoeuvrability. The top is just as tight but he doesn’t really care. At least it’ll feel more like his workout gear than anything else; he thinks he can cope with that. Still, he already misses the warmth of his jumpers. The leather jacket can only make up for so much. And his last one got torn up and whilst Alec is still happy to wear it, it’s very evident that Izzy left it in the ‘no’ pile so he’s forced to wear the new squeaky, pleather cow-coat and pretend to enjoy it. She didn’t leave him any shoes, at least, so he can wear his worn-in boots.

He tugs them on as he tries to ignore his swirling thoughts, focusing on the mission. But something’s off. Nothing concrete. Just a feeling. A gut instinct that screams turn around and never come back. But Alec has an obligation, a duty. And that’s to protect his siblings, so protect his siblings he shall.

With time to spare, he’s left to go through some basic training drills in his room to fill the time, taking each one with a deep breath to push out the chaotic anxiety lingering in his aura. He’s about to work up a sweat when Jace barges in, flopping down onto his bed with a groan.

There’s at least of a minute of silence, in which Alec continues his training, before Jace murmurs “I’m bored.” His face is the most expressive Alec has seen in days; it makes a blush rise up onto his cheeks to know that Jace might just let go around him, at least a bit. And really, it is only a little bit. A subtle softness to his brows that isn’t usually there and a lost gaze rather than his usual razor-sharp focus. It’s probably the most Jace is capable of.

“Are Izzy and Clary going to be much longer?”

“Izzy takes forever, you know that. I just want to go.”

“The party doesn’t start until midnight,” Alec reasons, “we couldn’t go now anyway.” He sits down next to Jace, hunching over as he tries to push his sleeves over his hands (look, he’s already missing his jumpers). He looks down at Jace, his black hair blocking his view as it hangs over his eyes. He finds himself staring anyway: at blonde hair that sparkles, at long eyelashes that are unfairly spread, skin that borders between tan and pale.

“Alec?” Apparently Jace had been saying something.

“Hm?”

“As I was saying, we could go out now and go to the party later. I have nothing to do.”

“I’m sure you could entertain yourself.” Anything but going out, please. Anything.

“Of course I could. But I could entertain myself better outside,” he says with a sarcastic wink. Alec’s blush deepens at the insinuation but Jace doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he’s looking intently into Alec’s eyes. A sudden fear floods through him that Jace has found…something. It’s a constant buzz in the back of his mind: Jace could find out, Jace would hate you, Jace should-

“You’re quiet,” Jace comments, with all the honesty he usually possesses. Slowly, he sits up, squinting at Alec like he’s trying to decipher a code. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Alec replies defensively.

“No, something’s up. What is it?” Sometimes Alec wishes Jace was a little more…shameful.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea to go to this party.”

“Why not? We need to get Clary’s memories back.”

“We met her a week ago, why is that our job?”

Jace scowls. “We’re Shadowhunters, it’s literally our job.”

“But-” Alec runs out of arguments. He can’t just say he doesn’t think Clary deserves it; Jace clearly won’t agree. And he can’t say anything else: he can’t mention the nervous feeling in his chest, the raging palpitations of his heart, nor the fear in his stomach. Jace wouldn’t understand, Alec doesn’t understand.

It just feels like something’s wrong.

They sit in silence for a while, Jace groaning at random intervals whilst Alec starts to read his book, curled up in the armchair by his bedroom window. He misses the sunlight it gets in the morning as he squints in the dim lamplight. In the meantime, Alec pretends not to notice the fleeting looks Jace sends in his direction, no doubt tainted by pity or confusion.

“We’re going!” Izzy shouts from outside, followed by the loud clacking of her heels. Alec follows Jace out, scowling with residual frustration, meeting the other pair in the corridor. Clary has her arm linked with Izzy’s but is released when Jace begins to flirt with her (to which Alec only scowls more), leaving Izzy to come and pester him.

“You ready?” Izzy asks Alec, her eyes bright with determination. Clearly, she’s noticed something with Alec too.

“Whether I’m ready or not, I don’t think I have a choice.”

Magnus takes to parties like a moth to a flame: with just as much fervour, and just as much regret afterwards. The booming music and flashing lights are his element. His clothes are a costume, portraying him to his sycophantic audience, intricately designed by people still so alive in his memory yet so long gone. He talks to as many guests as he can, or would like to. All of them Downworlders, though there’s at least one mundane with the Sight around. Or, at the very least, the mundane has been revealed to the Shadow World enough to recognise its glamours. They’re here with a werewolf, Magnus thinks.

It’s only once he’s left a group of hyperactive, and rather drunk, faeries that he notices a distinct lack of this evening’s protagonist: his glorious and most majestic cat, Chairman Meow. Through the crowds, he’s discreetly investigated the floors in hopes of catching sight of white and brown patched fur. Despite his size, the Chairman really should not be so hard to find. And telling his guests about the party’s honourable guest without said guest in sight is just getting embarrassing.

With a sigh, he dismisses himself from the latest sycophantic warlock who starts pandering for his attention and meanders up to the main room of his apartment, keeping up his spectacular charm as to not worry his guests. Worry would lead to rather horrible things. His guests are known for hysterics from time to time.

Once he gets past the large wooden doors, he begins to search in earnest, allowing just the slightest of worry to gnaw at him. Although, after so many years of, well, living, worry is hard to come by when it’s not some self-absorbed fear that the life he’d spent so long living might end. Really, his cat has never been gone this long and he has a spectacular skill at appearing just as Magnus wants him to. He scours the main room and his bedroom, checking under the thick sheets with ardent fervour.

Chairman Meow isn’t anywhere.

It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise. He wanders off from time to time but there’s something that may or may not have to do with Magnus’ pride that spurs him to find the damn cretin (he’ll apologise for the thought later but his honour is at stake here). A thought strikes, albeit not a very good one, and he begins to rifle through his cupboards, swirling unlabelled vials to try and decipher their contents. Damn his disorganisation. He blames it on the bad lighting that’s forcing him to squint at the messily scrawled labels and suddenly indistinct colours. Snapping his fingers, the lights burn brighter but so does the light pounding in his head. He sighs; he’ll do without. And anyway, he has his culprit. A tracking potion: a deep blue liquid in a vial almost empty. It’s a common one and he sells it by the drop; he suspects there are only one or two drops left. Still, it’ll do. Going to the sofa to gather a few stray cat-hairs that he has yet to snap away, he has everything he needs.

Now, for the main spectacle.

Carrying the vial and the hair, he sweeps downstairs, ready to bring the protagonist back to the action. It won’t take much. A drop of the potion on his tongue, a click of his fingers for transportation, and voila! A cat. His cat. Of course, he really doesn’t need the potion but it always looks so much more dramatic when people can see what you are doing. A wave of his hand is just so…anticlimactic.

He opens the door and stands at the top of the stairs, examining his party with a smile. His eyes spot the drunk faeries and he’s about to intervene with…whatever it is that they’re doing, when the doorbell rings. He shudders. Seriously, who rings the doorbell?

With hopes that he’ll find his cat after removing these intruders from his abode, he downs the potion, cursing whoever decided that a performance was not in order as he begins to cypher through the information the magic’s giving him (an alley, some garbage and…is that a rat?!). He’s almost ready to perform the final step and get Chairman out of whatever hell hole he’s landed in (it’s got rats!) when he opens the door.

Of course, it’s just Magnus’ luck when he opens the door to Shadowhunters.

When they arrive, there’s a brick in Alec’s gut. He can’t handle the fear-mongering palpitations of his heart, stronger than they’ve ever been in a fight. Nervous sweat clings to him but he blames it on the balmy summer heat. He acts cool and whatever Izzy and Jace might claim, at least Clary and Simon are falling for it, giving him nervous side-eyes (as they should) whilst he scowls. It almost makes him smile. Almost.

They wait patiently at the door, Izzy’s hand falling nervously at her side. Really, it shouldn’t be taking this long. She’s about to knock again when the door swings open, revealing an irate warlock with nothing better to do than beat Alec at his one-man scowling competition. Except Alec can’t scowl anymore. Really, it takes all his energy to not just let his mouth drop open in awe. Magnus Bane is…well, he’s certainly something. His black hair is spiked on his head yet looks unimaginably soft not sticky. His makeup is as bold as it is beautiful, lining bright yellow cat eyes and thin, yet not cruel, lips. His clothes are even more outstanding; Alec doesn’t know what the colour combination is but he’s impressed with it, though he feels forcibly inferior in his black getup.

“Magnus? Magnus Bane?” Izzy asks. Alec almost scoffs, she’s trying her subtle charm schtick, fluttering her eyelashes and leaning in like he’s going to fall at her feet. Well, maybe he will. But the expression on his face makes Alec doubt it. He looks as uninterested in Isabelle as Alec is in women (not that anybody knows that).

“That would be me,” he replies with a poignant lifting of a single eyebrow. Alec is impressed by just how much it says. Even in the darkness, it reveals more of his thin eyes and tan skin, giving him a distinctly Asian look; Alec blushes as he thinks about how much he’d like to look more.

There’s a moment before Magnus seems to actually catch onto what’s happening. “Children of Nephilim,” he finally says into the silence. “Well, well. I don’t recall inviting you.” At least the scowl’s gone, Alec thinks. The judgemental stare may not be any better but it does make his face slightly softer.

Izzy presents the invitation with a flourish but Magnus still looks painfully disinterested. “I have an invitation. These are my friends.” Magnus’ eyes scan the crowding, resting on Alec for just a moment too long, making a red blush taint his cheeks (another thing to blame on the heat).

“I must have been drunk.” Magnus deliberates. The scowl has returned. Even now, though, he’s beautiful. Oh god, Alec realises, he’s-

With a sigh, Magnus throws the door open. “Come in. And try not to murder any of my guests.”

“Even if one of them spills a drink on my new shoes?” Jace can’t help but taunt. Alec resists the urge to punch him. Now is not the time. Then again, is it ever? Maybe Alec is just boring.

“Even then,” Magnus shoots back. Just as quickly, he has Jace’s stele in his hand, examining with a collector’s interest. Alec almost smiles at Jace’s abashed face. Serves him right. “As for this,” Magnus adds with a flourish, “keep it in your pants, Shadowhunter.” He winks, his eyes darting over to Alec yet again. Alec’s blush is violent, like a tide of red over his pale of skin. He’s thankful that Magnus is so…attention-grabbing. He doesn’t think he could withstand the teasing right now (teasing that his siblings would no doubt revel in; or, well, Izzy would, at least).

For now, he checks himself. Already, tonight has been a whirlwind in his mind, for no other reason than an eerie sense of foreboding looming over him. There’s a moment of gratefulness when he realises the anxiety seems to have faded. Although the nerves aren’t gone, only settled. They’re like a buzz in the back of his mind. Until he looks at Magnus. And then they explode. It’s like a warning, telling him to run whilst he still can but he’s enchanted, it’s like he can’t look away, he can’t-

He can’t think straight.

Ha.

Alec doesn’t hear what’s said next but they’re being led inside with Jace looking a bit shell-shocked. It’s all too pleasing. Alec loves his parabatai (too much, one might say) but there’s no doubt he needs to be knocked down a few pegs. Then again, Alec has always been attracted to arrogance, it’s one of his (many) failures.

Slowly, they begin to walk down the main hall. Alec keeps his eyes peeled, examining the antique furnishings and bright decorations. It’s all rather plain, though, in comparison to the main ordeal. Once they reach the party, Alec is knocked back into his body by the sheer force that is…everything.

The loft is huge, its large windows covered by thick muck to block out Brooklyn’s artificial light. Rafters spread from floor to ceiling, giving the entire place an industrial feel. Still, it is undeniably ‘Magnus’. There’s glitter wherever glitter can be, coloured lights in place of what Alec presumes was usually a warm yellow, and the music is a deep thrum, just as attention-grabbing as Magnus himself.

Alec tries not to look too hard; it’s all too easy to get yourself lost in throngs of Downworlders. The magic has an undeniable pull, one that disgusts many Shadowhunters but never fails to entice him. It’s a dangerous line he walks, dipping between appraisal for the unknown and self-disgust for his interest. He can’t be a part of the atmosphere so he allows himself to loathe it, bitter jealousy tainting his every look. But in times like these, he almost does feel like he’s a part of it. It’s all so close, so palpable, and it beats his heart like he can’t do it himself.

“You like the party?” Magnus asks. He’s leaning against a pillar, all slender and graceful. His eyes, staring at Clary with undeniable intent, shine bright under the lights. Alec realises now that Jace has dragged him through the crowd; they’re a way back now but his gaze is still stuck on Magnus. He can only see his lips moving, he can’t stop staring at them.

Jace seems as lost as Alec, presumably in the throng just to escape the embarrassment Magnus will inevitably cause him. But this is no time for pride, they have a mission and they don’t need distractions. Alec drags Jace back in the direction of Magnus and Clary, surprised when he turns and sees a smug smile on Jace’s face and a ring of flowers around his neck. Alec pushes down the boiling hot jealousy and pulls them further towards Clary.

“Where are Simon and Isabelle?” Clary asks once they’re close enough.

“On the dance floor,” Jace replies. Alec is too busy staring at Magnus. He just…he can’t seem to stop. There’s a tug, a rope around his heart dragging him to shore. Magnus seems the same. His eyes have now locked on Alec’s. They both step forward, inexplicably. Jace seems to be saying something but Alec isn’t listening.

“I’m Magnus,” Magnus introduces again superfluously.

“Alec,” he replies, his name sounding oddly thick on his tongue. He looks down; Magnus has held his hand out, waiting for Alec to shake. It’s like opposite magnets, his hand is almost drawn in, pushing against Magnus’ with an unparalleled force. And then-

Alec sees everything.

He sees their first kiss on a balcony he doesn’t recognise. He sees their first time, a thought that makes him blush all the way down to his chest. He sees a wedding, under beautiful fairy lights and bright roses. He sees a child, blue skin shining in the moonlight. He sees-

“STOP!” Alec screams, wrenching his hand from Magnus’. He’s panting, gulping down impossibly large breaths. He tries to hide away, eyes flickering to the crowd like they might have seen the visions too. There’s a crowd gathered around them but it’s Alec’s scream that drew their attention, not his silent haunts.

“Alexander-" Magnus reaches out to him but Alec is too quick to withdraw. His eyes are wide, midnight blue filling with crystal tears (weak! a voice in his head chants).

“Don’t call me that. We’re leaving.”

“No!” Magnus suddenly shouts, grabbing Alec again. This time, no visions appear, only the memory of a future not yet lived, already seen in his mind. Just glimpses, moments of importance, something he’s yet to cherish but will. Something he may already cherish.

He doesn’t know what to think.

Finally, he turns back to see Magnus’ face too, filled with just as much surprise as his own, even though there’s a distinct lack of fear. There’s a determination there instead. A longing, even. “We need to talk about this,” Magnus tries.

“Talk about what? Whatever you just did to me was a dirty trick, warlock, now get off me.” It’s a low blow, a derogatory blow. But he’s a Shadowhunter, and it’s a tried and tested method in getting what you want.

“Whatever just happened isn’t important,” Jace interrupts, because of course he does. “We need to talk about Clary.” Alec is both bitter about the complete self-absorption of the comment whilst being unendingly grateful for the diversion of attention.

Magnus sighs but gives in easily enough. He clearly has a plan up his sleeve but Alec would rather not think about it. Remaining behind Alec, his hand on the curve of his lower back, Magnus leads them into the main room of his loft: a combination of a bedroom and living room. Most likely, it’s just Magnus’ bedroom, but Alec has never seen something so illustrious in his life.

“Nice place,” Jace comments, eyes dragging over the bright furniture. Alec is not sure if he would say the exact same thing, a little overwhelmed by the eclectic concoction of furniture. There are obnoxious rainbow curtains that make Alec feel both deeply uncomfortable and passively intrigued. He wishes for a moment that they’d open; the sight of the Brooklyn skyline never fails to calm him. “Guess it pays well, being the High Warlock of Brooklyn?” Jace adds after a bout of discomfiting silence.

“It pays,” Magnus replies. Then stops. He opens his mouth like he’s going to make a joke but can’t bring himself to do so. There’s something suddenly demeaned about his posture. The bright clothes are like a silly, child’s costume in comparison to the solemnity on his face. “So, what do you want?” He asks, already weary.

“I’m just going to go,” Alec blurts before Clary can explain. He stands, almost toppling over as he overzealously throws himself upwards. He doesn’t want to listen to Clary explain her dilemma or be around Magnus any longer. He can’t take it. He just can’t.

“Alec, whatever’s going on, now is not the time,” Jace chastises, motioning for Alec to sit back down. It takes everything in Alec’s power to not just stick his tongue out at him and storm off. He’s nearly eighteen now and he matured the moment he started fighting real demons but there’s still a lingering childishness that’s hard to overcome. Slowly, he sinks back to his seat, surprised when some of the tension in Magnus’ body is released. Alec can no longer look at him but it’s like his periphery is putting him in focus. He’s threateningly magnetic.

“It’s not them who want to talk to you,” Clary explains, “it’s me.”

“You are not one of them. Not of the Clave. But you can see the Invisible World.”

“My mother was one of the Clave.” Alec zones out after that. This whole debacle bores him. Shadowhunters are meant to feel a sense of excitement and adventure on missions, an indescribable adrenaline rush from the hunt. Alec thinks that his parabatai bond gave all his to Jace, leaving him empty. Missions make him sweat and panic and although he wouldn’t trade his job for anything else, he knows there’s something he lacks that other Shadowhunters don’t. He protects and does so like it’s a routine. He doesn’t seek the fight or the thrill. He just…he does what he should.

He finally zones back in for the revelation that Magnus had taken Clary’s memories at her mother’s request. His bubble is completely burst as Clary exclaims “my mother did this to me?” Alec can’t help it. He pities her. Alec knows his own mother is stern, but she is not that…that…

Well, maybe she is.

Dammit, now he pities himself.

Alec is stuck in his rut again, lost in thoughts of his family: a double-edged sword he’s never managed to free himself from. He’s only broken out of his reverie by Magnus’ sudden animation. Alec curses himself for his absent-mindedness. He’s usually so focused, aware of everything that’s around him, observing the things that no one else can observe as he hides in the shadows. Perks of being a wallflower, he guesses.

“I didn’t damage you,” Magnus spits. His teeth are gleaming, exposed under suddenly brighter lights. There is no visible magic but Alec can feel it in the air, thick and clogging. It sets him on edge, but not how it should. That excitement, the excitement Alec ever so lacks, threatens his heart. It pumps through his veins, a thrill he can’t quell. This isn’t like fighting a demon, expecting death. This is like facing death and laughing at it because you know it won’t harm you. It’s pain and pleasure intertwined. Just as anger and passion are.

“Every teenager in the world feels like that,” Magnus continues in a blazing fury, “feels broken or out of place, different somehow, royalty mistakenly born into a family of peasants. The difference in your case is that it’s true. You are different. Maybe not better—but different. And it’s no picnic being different. You want to know what it’s like when your parents are good churchgoing folk and you happen to be born with the devil’s mark?” His painted nails point at his eyes like claws. “When your father flinches at the sight of you and your mother hangs herself in the barn, driven mad by what she’s done? When I was ten, my father tried to drown me in the creek. I lashed out at him with everything I had—burned him where he stood. I went to the fathers of the church eventually, for sanctuary. They hid me. They say that pity’s a bitter thing, but it’s better than hate. When I found out what I was really, only half a human being, I hated myself. Anything’s better than that.”

Silence descends, as thick and palpable as Magnus’ magic. Maybe it still is Magnus’ magic. Alec reaches out unwittingly but pulls his hand back before he does something he’ll regret. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “You can’t help how you’re born.”

Magnus expression reveals nothing. “I’m over it. I think you get my point. Different isn’t better, Clarissa. Your mother was trying to protect you. Don’t throw it back in her face,” he advises.

“I don’t care if I’m different,” Clary says. “I just want to be who I really am.” Suddenly, the fire that Alec hadn’t even noticed burns brighter. Magnus looks frustrated for a moment before the flames quell and he starts to scan his bookshelf.

“All right. Listen. I can’t undo what I’ve done, but I can give you something else. A piece of what would have been yours if you’d been raised a true child of the Nephilim.” He squints harder at the bookshelf. With grandeur, he finally plucks out whatever he was looking for and drops it onto a small table in the centre of the room with a resounding thud. Its pages are flimsy and thin and the cover worn, but it’s as familiar to Alec as it is unfamiliar to Clary. He may not have seen it all that often, but they’ve heard plenty of its history.

“Is that a copy of the Gray Book?” Jace asks with surprise. Magnus doesn’t reply as he sifts through the pages, a fervour in his eye.

“Hodge has one,” Alec feels compelled to say. “He showed it to me once.”

“It’s not grey, it’s green,” Clary just has to comment.

“If there was such a thing as terminal literalism, you’d have died in childhood,” Jace complains but his face speaks another story. It annoys Alec to no end but he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about it. This whirlwind of violent emotions is beginning to take him apart. His composure is cracking; he can only stay in the eye of the storm so long. For now, he pushes his feelings down. Jace distracts him with an explanation of the title, one that even Alec didn’t know (which leads to an irritatingly embarrassing argument that Alec does not want to divulge the details of).

“Shut up,” Magnus interrupts quietly, eyes intent on a single page. In a single motion, he’s sat next to Clary, instructing her to…look at it? To Alec, it looks like nothing’s happened. One moment, Clary’s staring at the book. The next, Magnus is snatching it away with a hasty “that’s enough”.

It only takes another minute for the topic to skew. Clary, of course, blurts something about the Mortal Cup and then Magnus is all focus and intent again. It’s like whiplash. One moment, he moves like water, like nothing can touch him or hurt him or harm him or…The next, he’s like fire, flickeringly graceful yet focused, rooted to one spot in a way water could never be.

It’s when Magnus finally admits to knowing the name Valentine that Alec can’t help but ask, “where you at the Uprising?” It surprises him that he has the bravery to ask but he’s more surprised by the weight of focus on him. Magnus’ eyes hold a heaviness to them now. Cat eyes bore into his own, like they’re trying to solve the hardest riddle in the world. In the end, he only says “I was. I killed a number of your folk.” It holds as much poignance as any of his water-washed speeches.

“Circle members,” Jace says quickly, “not ours-”

Magnus’ eyes don’t move from Alec. If anything, the gaze is heavier, meaning weighing it down like a brick in a basket. “If you insist on disavowing that which is ugly about what you do, you will never learn from your mistakes.”

Alec drags his gaze to the floor. He can’t bear to look anymore. “You don’t seem surprised to hear Valentine’s still alive.”

“Are you?”

Magnus doesn’t agree to help them with the cup. It shouldn’t be a surprise, yet it feels like a dagger of betrayal in his already battered chest. Alec finally catches Magnus’ eye, deciding that he can try just for a moment. He can try and look and not see a sweet smile or feel the cold band of metal against his hand or hear the slow beat of a Warlock's heart.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Magnus says abruptly, eyes boring into Alec’s.

“What is it?” Clary asks eagerly, leaning forward like an over-excited puppy.

“I will give you some guidance and aid, if he stays the night.” A glittered finger is pointing at him like a death sentence. The shimmer of it in the light is freakishly threatening, in the way that feminine things often are.

“What?” Clary and Jace say at the same time. Clary just looks confused but Jace looks un-righteously angry. Alec isn’t quite sure what he’s defending but there’s an untempered fury in Jace’s posture. Alec, as he always has to, intervenes. “It’s fine, Jace. I- I’ll do it. It’ll get us information.” And it will give me answers, no matter how little I want them. It’s his duty, and Alec is nothing if not loyal to his institution. Fear rattles him anyway. As Magnus keeps his gaze steadfast on him, Alec tries to calm the drum-like beat of his heart. It’s a war drum in his chest: b-dum b-dum b-dum. He can hear it. Beat after beat after beat.

“We don’t even know what he wants with you!” Jace argues, flushed.

“I just want to talk to him, Shadowhunter,” Magnus groans, rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry, there’ll be no funny business here. Now, do we have a deal?”

Jace looks to Alec for guidance but he already knows his answer. Slowly, Jace nods, beckoning Clary to his side like a lapdog. She doesn’t follow. Alec suddenly feels a modicum of respect for her. Jace can be all too tempting sometimes.

“We have a deal,” Alec replies for himself, proud when it pushes a small smile onto Magnus’ lips for reasons he can’t begin to comprehend.

“Well, that’s sorted then. You two, get out. I have business to attend to.” Yet again, Jace looks deeply offended by Magnus’ comments but decides not to push it and leads himself and Clary out of the loft and back into the party, where they can find Izzy and Simon and go home.

That leaves Alec.

Alec, a terrified Shadowhunter, left miles out of his comfort zone with a Warlock that is a tad too overzealous with his glitter. They stare at each other for a while, a thick silence permeating the glistening light of Magnus’ studio. It leaves Alec with time to think: too much time to think, really. Emotions that swirled around him are finally spitefully spitting at him. The spell Magnus cast, the danger Clary posed (or rather, what she brought with her), the intent in Magnus’ gaze and the endlessly loud beating of his heart.

Energy burns through him, sizzling anger and paranoid confusion. At some point he stands, and not much later he begins to pace slowly around the room, Magnus’ eyes following him. “Alexander-” he begins fruitlessly as Alec interrupts him.

“What happened earlier?” He asks, pausing for only a moment.

“A spell.”

“What spell?” He asks, walking faster.

“A potion.”

“What potion?”

“Clairvoyance.”

Alec stops. “What!?”

“Clairvoyance. That was what the potion was for. I drank it by accident. It was meant to be a tracking potion for my cat. They’re quite similar in colour.”

“You…you drank the wrong potion…and it showed you the future?”

“Well, not exactly. That’s what a crystal ball is for. I tried to mimic it and, well, don’t tell anyone else this because they’re not allowed to know, but I couldn’t. So, instead, I got this. Touch someone with intent and see your shared future.”

“It was wrong,” Alec says automatically. “I’m not-”

“Spells can’t lie. Magic is honest. If you want to see half-truths, go to the Seelie’s. Warlock magic is different.”

“But I’m not-”

“Stop it, Alexander. You know as well as I do what you are.” Alec moves to the closest chair and sinks into it, eyes vacantly staring at the wall.

“I’m not-”

“What? Gay? Or is this something else? Do you think you’re too good for a Warlock? Or is that you are just disgusted by the mere thought of Downworlders? I wouldn’t be so surprised; the thought seems to have poisoned the Nephilim over the centuries.”

“No! No…it’s…you’re a man. And you’re a Warlock.”

“And?”

“And?! You’re- you’re…” Alec sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Look, you’re confused, I understand but denial isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“Well what do you want me to say?!” Alec bursts, eyes frantically wide, fists clenched to a painful white. “What could I possibly say?”

“There are mature ways to have this conversation.”

“I’m not being immature.”

“You are. And I get it. You’re young, it’s inevitable, but think before you speak, Alexander.”

“I’m not young!” For a Shadowhunter, the life expectancy is, unofficially, sitting around 25. In the last century, it’s thought to have risen to just above thirty but in terms of mundane expectancy, it’s morbidly low. It doesn’t help to have such a small population, even a few statistical outliers skew the data against them.

Magnus laughs. “I’m hundreds of years old. You’re eighteen.”

“I’m an adult.”

“As of what? A few months? Less? No miracles happen on your eighteenth birthday. For all intents and purposes, your behaviour is that of a teenager’s.”

“So is that it? Are you going to switch this around and blame it on me just because I’m young? If you didn’t notice, in that stupid vision you marry me, so you certainly think I’m old enough for that.”

Magnus scowls. “I didn’t say you were stupid. Or naive. You just lack life experience.”

“I have had plenty of life experience.”

“What? Being locked up in that Institute of yours and every now and then, going out and killing a few demons. Maybe a Downworlder or two?”

“It’s not like that.”

“I think it very much is. I’ve already said denial is pointless.”

“It isn’t denial. I’ve had plenty of experience.” Alec isn’t going to mention that lack of demon kills on his roster; it’s not the time.

“So tell me, Alexander, what life experience do you have? Have you fallen in love? Have you travelled? Have you ever even left New York? Bar that precious Idris of yours.”

“…no.”

“Have you had a broken heart?” Magnus continues to push. “Have you ever gone to a party? Have you ever gotten drunk? Have you ever even had fun?”

“I have fun!”

“Doing what?”

“Training. Reading…Stuff.”

“Reading is a good past time. And it can be fun, don’t doubt me on that. But it cannot be the only enjoyment someone has in their life. There needs to be something more. And that something can’t be work. That is what training is. I know you Shadowhunters see your job as your duty and all but it really is just a job. I’ve seen so many Nephilim sell their lives to it. At the end of the day, it doesn’t make them happy.”

“What do you care?”

Magnus sighs. “Alexander…the potion doesn’t change the future, it shows the future that it has already changed. There are billions of possible futures but the potion shows the one that will happen. It knows our choices before we’ve even made them. This isn’t an option. What we have in that vision is our future. And I can’t bear if those moments are shrouded by your duties or your sadness or…I want to be here for you.”

“You feel obligated,” Alec argues. “You’ve seen it and now you don’t think you can escape it.”

“That’s not how this works. I could leave right now. I could portal to Paris and enjoy the city of love by myself, which is miserable may I add, and that future will still happen. It may be a chance meeting in five years or it could be a meeting tomorrow. It could be caused by what else happens tonight. You can’t escape it. It will eventually come. And maybe seeing the future is what’s causing the future but it’s still the future. It is still the chain of events that will occur so what does it matter about motive or meaning or fate. It’s the truth and we have to live with it.”

“It was only in glimpses,” Alec continues, “there’s no context! Maybe- maybe we faked a wedding for a mission! And…and maybe that kiss was a mistake. And maybe that boy wasn’t ours and-”

“Denial makes people ugly, Alexander. Couldn’t you see the love? Our love? I don’t fall for just anyone, Alexander. I haven’t fallen for anyone in a hundred years. I haven’t let myself. Yet I saw myself looking at you in the same way I’ve looked at very few people before. And you looked back at me in the same way.”

“I-” Alec stands up. “I’ve had enough. I’m leaving.” He’s at the door when a wall of blue magic erupts in front of him, a spiderweb of electricity holding him in.

“We have a deal. You can’t leave. And nothing’s going to change by running away. Which, may I add, is rather childish.” Alec rolls his eyes and stands steadfast for a moment, examining the magic before letting out a distressed sigh and sitting back down. The anger is already receding. It slips through his fingers and pools beneath him, always in sight but not quite within reach. He wants to be angry; he thinks he ought to be for the violation of his own ability to choose. Yet he finds himself giving into Magnus’ logic anyway.

He’s never been good at holding a grudge, but he does his best, gripping it in his fist and begging for it to remain in its cage. But maturity is only an extension of time and as the clock ticks on and the stillness remains, Alec finds himself looking at the situation with logic rather than blind anger. Reason battles within him. His subconscious screams at him to run but his conscious mind tells him to stay put, to ask more questions, to just let Magnus explain properly and to listen this time.

He lets the stillness linger.

It can’t last forever, though. Life moves on and eventually, Alec’s thoughts become cyclical and the questions in his head become too much to bear in silence. “How-” Alec tries but his words putter out, anxiety wracking his body. Anger has turned to his usual solitude. He’d do anything to be anywhere else, preferably alone, getting lost in a world that’s not his own. A world that just isn’t this. “How did you know? About your sexuality, I mean.” It’s the burning question: the question that Alec can only just bear to ask. There’s too much that comes with the answer. A confirmation, or maybe nothing new. He weighs too much on what Magnus might reply. But it’s the only question he thinks he can ask. Before he asks anything else, anyway. He needs to be sure. He needs to just know. Know that what he already thinks isn’t wrong.

“It wasn’t something I knew, I just never cared. I had been called a monster all my life, it didn’t matter if I added another sin to my list,” Magnus replies honestly, surprising Alec out of his reticence. “There’s more to it of course,” Magnus adds when he notices Alec’s rapt attention. “But it’s quite simple when you boil down to it. It can be confusing. Almost endlessly. But that’s because people fear the answer. If you see a man in your future,” Magnus says pointedly, “and you don’t feel like that’s wrong, then there’s little doubt about your sexuality. If you’re confused because you have the same feelings for women, then just accept that you don’t care. People put too much importance on the answer. I’ve lived a thousand years and I’ve learnt that the ins and outs of sexuality don’t matter. Labels have their place. But really, it’s become a jumble. Feel what you feel. Love who you love. If you change your mind then…well, that’s that.” Magnus adds a flourishing shrug and puts his attention on Alec. They sit there like they’re both expecting something, they’re just not sure what it is.

Then Alec says it.

“I’m gay. I think.”

“Well, of course. I could tell that from the beginning.”

“How?” Alec blanches, listing through all the other people who might also know in his mind.

Magnus laughs, though not unkindly. “Apart from the fact that I saw us getting married?” Alec nods seriously; Magnus just puffs out a breath. “It’s the way you held yourself. It’s not obvious to most but, well, I’m not most. I know what people look like when they fear what they are. I’ve learnt to pick it out over the years.”

“What does it look like?”

“Like they’re trying to hide from everything. Like they wish they were anything different. Like they think they are worse than everyone around them.”

Alec doesn’t have an answer for that.

Magnus can’t bear silence for long. He’s ancient so he has his practice, but it bores him and discomfits him in equal. He likes grand gestures and loud music and flashing lights. He doesn’t like the vulnerability of warm lamps, silence and the inability to tear down the walls around someone’s pristine exterior. Magnus would like to say that after so long of living that he’s a master of people but if there’s anything he’s learnt, no matter what you do (whether it’s the same or different) everyone will react differently. He has to tread carefully here. Alec is the vulnerable one here, he’s the one in shock. Magnus is surprised by the visions but not afraid. Alec’s mind is clearly begging for him to run away from Magnus and never look back. The only thing holding him back is a deal and his own integrity. Magnus needs to get him to speak up, though, and the face the truth in the gentlest possible way.

His first tactic is tea: relaxing, opening and warm. It’s common for people to open up around tea. It had been Charlotte’s favourite trick: a woman, a friend, in 1800s London, long gone now. People, she had always said, hide behind their mugs and revel in the safety of its warmth. It’ll make them say anything, she’d always add. So, in his usual Magnus flourish, he stands up with a swish of his hand and practically floats the kitchen to prepare a pot of tea. It’s extensive work; he won’t accept shoddy workmanship. A tea’s magic will only work as well as the effort that’s put into it. A mug and a tea bag aren’t going to do. No, he needs tea leaves and a china pot with delicate blue carvings and teacups with golden rims.

When the tray is ready, he uses his magic to balance the fine china and places it gently down on the coffee table. Alec stares at it, eyes a little wide as he stares at the delicate display. Magnus smiles, proud to show off, and pours them both a cup. For safety, he puts milk and sugar in Alec’s, even though it disgusts him. A sweet tea will only serve to comfort further. For his own, he adds only a dash of milk and drinks its almost black.

He doesn’t say anything, only motions to the cup when Alec remains steadfast in his place. Shyly, he leans over and picks up the tiny cup in his too-large hands. He handles it like he would handle a child before he sips at it nervously. Magnus almost laughs at the tension that’s released after his first sip. His body sags and a sweet smile budges the corners of his lips. It’s nowhere near a true or perpetual thing, but it’s there for just a moment. Alec shuffles back in his seat and curls up behind his mug. Charlotte was right, people really do hide behind their mugs.

Magnus knows now that he’s wasted enough time. He’s here to talk about something and he has to do it now, or he knows he’ll never do it later. “Do you hate the idea of our future?” Alec’s head snaps upwards, his face like a deer in the headlights. His dark, midnight eyes glisten with uncertainty and his lips purse. “You’ve admitted you’re gay, which is lovely by the way, but you’ve said nothing for…everything else.”

“Do you?” Magnus wasn’t expecting that. The question throws him off. Really, he hasn’t thought about it. He’s been so wrapped up in Alec’s thoughts and the rest of it, that he hasn’t really thought about himself in this equation.

Him and a Shadowhunter. Together. Does the thought disgust him? No, he thinks. It doesn’t. It confuses him. Confuses him to Edom and back but it doesn’t disgust him. There’s a discomfort but it’s not because of his race; it’s because of the fear of people that have long since oppressed him. Alec he can fall for, Alec he can love, but the Institute? If they raise retribution for Alec’s feelings, then Magnus isn’t sure he’ll survive it.

“No,” he says anyway, kindling his bravery. Death might just be his punishment but he’s seen their future. They’ll get married, they’ll have a child. And even if he only gets that, he’ll be glad for it. He’s lived hundreds of years but never, ever, has he been married. Never has he risen a child from birth. He’s adopted late in life, he’s helped Downworlders in need, but none of them have been his children, only his friends. “I’m worried. But not disgusted.”

“Why?”

“The Clave is not kind to people like me. Especially not when involved with their own kind. But I’ve seen our future. I think I’m willing to risk it. And anyway, I have always been close to the Nephilim. I may be worried about the Clave’s reaction, even punishment, but I’m optimistic.”

“Really?” Alec looks hopeful too, blue eyes wide and innocent. Magnus shakes himself out of it; he shouldn’t think like that. Alec may be young but he’s not innocent. He’s been born into a band of warriors; he’s seen nearly as much death as Magnus has. Nearly.

“Yes. I’ve already told you; the future is the future. I don’t think I can fight it. I might as well be happy about it.”

“I-” Alec pauses, trying to gather his words. “I’m not disgusted either,” he finally says, head ducked, eyes boring into his half-empty teacup.

“So we feel the same?” Alec nods and Magnus feels an inexplicable happiness in his chest. It’s too early on for Alec to be dictating his moods yet it happens anyway. Each smile lights Magnus up, each frown makes him self-conscious. It’s young love, he recognises, something he didn’t think he was capable of anymore. Yet here he is. “Then, I think it’s time a Shadowhunter heard some of our culture.”

“What?”

“Well, if this is going to work, I think I should prove your prejudices wrong.”

“You don’t need to-”

“Alexander,” Magnus cuts him off with. “Let me. This is only going to work if there are no sticking points between us. I want to tell you the Warlock history that isn’t in the Clave textbooks. You should hear both sides before you make any opinions about us. And then, maybe, you can tell me some of the redeeming qualities of your own race. No race is all evil or all good. I want to hear the good. At long last,” Magnus gasps dramatically, if only to make Alec smile.

“Okay then,” Alec agrees with surprising ease. It warms Magnus’ heart and no matter how much he curses it, the warmth doesn’t fade. “Tell me.”

He doesn’t quite understand how they’ve got here, sitting next to each other with their legs almost intertwined. It’s like magic pulled him here, narrowing the mile-wide distance they had started with.

Alec is listening raptly to Magnus’ story, a narrative from a distant past that Alec can’t even begin to comprehend that Magnus had actually lived through. “And then Ragnor decided that asking the royal prince for amnesty was going to work. God knows why! He hated me. And no matter how much he liked Ragnor, he was not going to pull me out of prison, someone he hated passionately, for his barely-a-friend. Then, in the end, Ragnor had to break me out himself, scowling constantly in that abrasive way of his. He still brings it up! Every time he needs a favour: it’s remember Paris, Magnus! Or remember Peru! Or Tokyo!”

“That is a lot of countries already,” Alec says with a wide grin.

“But he’s just as bad!” Magnus defends. “I had to save him from some vampires in Sydney! And then there was that time in-”

“Don’t worry, I get it. You’re even.”

“Of course we are! And how he can keep bringing it up, I don’t know. That man can hold a grudge for centuries.”

Alec laughs behind his hand and rests his head against the sofa’s backboard. “I bet he couldn’t beat Izzy. She may only be eighteen but she’s still holding grudges from our childhood. And I don’t just mean any grudge, she actually still resents me for them.”

“Now this, I want to hear. What did you do?”

“All I did was borrow her whip. Once! I wanted to see if I could use it. To cut a long story short, I couldn’t. But still! She never said I couldn’t take it. And I gave it back to her afterwards. And I apologised. And now every time she sees me appreciate her whip, she has a go at me!” Magnus laughs, open and loud, eyes all too fond. The peals wind down quickly though and suddenly Magnus has that intent look in his eyes again. He’s staring at Alec, not like he’s puzzle now, but almost like he’s solved one.

“How did we get here?”

“What?” Alec’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to decipher Magnus in turn. But Alec is as young as Magnus is old; the case is almost impossible. An investigation into Magnus would take as many centuries as he’s lived. Alec can’t hope to catch up.

“This. I didn’t expect it.” This honesty isn’t something Alec had expected from Magnus. He’d expected it from himself. Yet something has switched. Something in Magnus has made him trust Alec and something in Alec has made him withdrawn. It’s like Alec is too afraid to comment in case he steps over a line he can’t see. And Magnus is all too eager to be honest if it rushes the outcome.

“This?”

“Us talking like this. I feel like…” he pauses, gathering his words. Maybe, really, he’s just as nervous as Alec is. “Like I understand the visions a lot better now.”

Alec contemplates for a moment before he nods. “Me too.”

“How about a restart?” Magnus requested. Alec is surprised but hope blooms in his chest anyway.

“That sounds good. We can be just… two people. No history. Just us.”

“Just this.”

“Yeah,” Alec breathes, a smile overcoming his face. It’s masked all too quickly by a frown, a thought running through his mind. “But…can we keep this quiet? I want it to be just us. Actually, just us. I just…I want to keep it quiet for now.”

Magnus swallows visibly but eventually seems to give in. “Of course.” Alec doesn’t realise it, not yet, but Magnus already can’t say no. Not when Alec looks like at him like that, all wide-blue eyes and hopeful longing. It’s enough to tear down Magnus’ walls in a second.

Magnus just has to hope that his defences aren’t needed this time.


End file.
